


And I Hit the Ground Right in Front of You

by novak



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Fallen Castiel, Fluff, M/M, References to Suicide, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2013-05-28
Packaged: 2017-12-13 05:34:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/820585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novak/pseuds/novak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is coming to terms with his status as a fallen angel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And I Hit the Ground Right in Front of You

When he looks at his hands, he doesn’t see the thrumming blue of his grace as it pulses through Jimmy Novak’s veins. When he looks at Dean, he doesn’t see the burning, golden brilliance of his soul shining out through his ribs, dulling the world around him into a monotonous over-saturated haze.  
He looks at Sam, and he only sees a sick, frightened man with guilt carved into his features, into the shadows in his eyes, and there’s no bright soul there to chase it away, to keep him from seeing it. 

He’s fallen. 

He could be grateful that the Winchesters found him, he supposes, but he’d have preferred to wander through the scraggly woods of wherever-the-fuck until wolves found him, or maybe a puma. He feels, though, as though he deserves to die from starvation, perhaps dehydration; something that hurts for days, and days, and days. It’s the only reason he hasn’t snatched Dean’s shotgun and blown himself straight into Hell.  
He should have died out there. He should have died in the cold rain; he should have died with his falling brothers and sisters at least, with his wings torn from his back while the starving flames swallowed his body whole. He should be punished for his sins against God, but he knows now, as he sits on the edge of a bed in Sam and Dean’s bunker, that he will not die. Not yet, at least. Not under their care. 

-

He’s still wet from the rain and his hair irritates his eyelashes when he blinks. He has to breathe and, according to Dean, he has to eat. There’s steaming soup on the bedside table but the thought of it makes Castiel’s stomach turn, even as it fills his torso with the sharp pang of hunger pains. He wonders how long he can go without food and he wonders why he can’t remember the answer; he knows it, he’s sure of it. He must have parroted it to Dean once, but he can’t remember how to ask. He can’t remember how to relate to the only man he’s ever truly loved, and the realisation splits a great, aching chasm through his heart like a jagged crack of lightning.  
He feels so broken, like a child’s toy flung carelessly down a staircase to where it shatters on the tiles below. Like a bird with broken wings, or perhaps no wings at all; when he shifts his shoulders there’s no ruffle of feathers. There’s no familiar heat of them at his back, no manifestation of his grace there. There’s no angel blade hidden in the meat of his forearm, there’s no healing, no ‘angel radio’, no infinite knowledge. No power. He doesn’t belong here anymore. He doesn’t belong anywhere anymore. 

He’s too weak to have the privilege of being with the boys. He’s fucking useless, and he knows it, even though Dean keeps telling him he’s not. The Winchester’s words fall on deaf ears. Castiel feels like he’s been stuffed with cotton wool; everything is muffled and he’s left alone, trapped and uncomfortable, with a radiating pain that keeps swelling up in his chest like some great monster awakening from eons of slumber.  
He becomes aware that his cheeks feel wet and he realises he’s crying. He quickly escalates to sobbing breathlessly as panic begins to heave itself up the bones of his spine, its fingers tight around his throat, constricting it. Dean hugs him and he doesn’t really feel it, it doesn’t really help, but he clutches at his forearm anyway, fingernails digging deep into the worn greenish-brown of Dean’s denim jacket while he bawls. 

“I got you Cas, I got you.” 

Cas feels like he’s falling all over again, like his guts are tying themselves into unsolvable knots that will never come loose. He feels like he’s losing himself, like he’s pouring out of a tiny hole in the very fabric of his existence and there’s no one there to scoop him up again.  
He can’t breathe properly; his nose is stuffed and the air is rushing in and out of his lungs too fast to register. Dean is holding him, trying to calm him down and oh God, something’s happening to him. 

Castiel pushes Dean away, hard, fingers sprawled briefly against his chest before he falls forwards onto the carpet.  
He vomits with his back arching, on his hands and knees, weeping bitterly whenever he can spare the breath. His tears are hot on his cheeks as he retches, bringing up nothing but saliva and bile and acid, all sticky and sour and strangely burning where it flecks across the backs of his hands. When he finally stops, when his throat is raw, he knows that Dean is nearby, that Dean is close.

He can smell him, he can feel the heat radiating off of him, and it’s comforting in some small, primitive way. He’s not alone. Cas leans back against the bed and covers his face with his hands while Dean cleans the carpet until there’s nothing but a stain, a small stain, a wet circle.  
The mess is gone, and Dean’s arms are around him. Dean’s lips are ghosting across his sweaty forehead. Dean’s fingers are combing through his hair, petting him, keeping him grounded as best he can while Castiel tries to calm himself, tears trickling incessantly down his cheeks, nose running. He wipes it clean on the sleeve of his coat, turning wet, bloodshot eyes to Dean’s face, all soft and concerned and _loving_. 

“I’m so sorry, Dean. So sorry. I didn't mean for this to happen. I didn't mean for any of this to happen.” 

“It’s okay, Cas. I got you. Sammy’s got you. We ain’t gonna let go, alright? You’re here with us. We got you.”


End file.
